


She Usually Walks

by melrosie



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Gen, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melrosie/pseuds/melrosie
Summary: You've been to see Cate's National Theatre play four times, and each time you've had an emerald peacock brooch pinned to your coat. It turns out that brooch is memorable, and Cate remembers you from the previous times you've attended the play. The third time you gifted her with some flowers which you wrapped in something special. Now Cate has invited you to share a cup of tea with her in her dressing room under the premise of her driver having car troubles, and you absolutely take her up on it. But what could she possibly have to talk to you about?





	She Usually Walks

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by Syd (inthetardis-asitshouldbe on tumblr).   
> You can find information for personalized fanfic requests on my tumblr @ LOUISEMILLER. 
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> PS. No matter the nature of my fics I cannot make assumptions about anyone's relationships. The concept of an "open relationship" is implied. I will not portray cheating nor disrespect to any partner or family of any persons I may be interpreting in my RPF.

Your breath comes out in clouds, it’s a frigid night but you feel warm. You’ve felt almost feverish with excitement the three previous times you’ve been here. You dressed up similarly for each show, your hair in a fancy updo each time. You’d decided statement earrings were something fun to wear to the theatre and you had to show them off. You have four pairs of lovely big earrings with emeralds in them, which you’d chosen because they match your grandmother’s gemstone peacock brooch, which you’ve worn on the lapel of your wool coat to each performance. 

The jewelry must be a good luck charm because that first night you were sure she’d looked your way during the curtain call. You hadn’t been the loudest of cheers nor the closest to the stage, but there her smiling eyes had been— and you thought you’d imagined it, her gaze on you for just a second, and then another, her grin infection with post-production endorphins. You’d gone again of course, and the second time your seat was closer. You’re wearing something new and your next pair of earrings, still emeralds and ornamental.

You’ve waited outside at the back door of the theatre each time. The first time you saw her but other admirers had arrived ahead of you and you couldn’t get close enough for a hug or a selfie or an autographic. But you would have been glad to just hold her hand for a few seconds. The second time you’re sure she saw you, looked out at you and her face lit up as you’d cheered, pink-cheeked and unsure if you’d ever be able to watch her perform without being utterly blown away. You’d waited by the back door again with a crowd of people, you were closer that time, and you got a quick hug from her and a whiff of her ever-darkening hair.

The third time, days later is merely by chance. A friend had a sudden change of plans so you went in her place, and this time, you bought a bouquet of flowers and sheepishly wrapped a script you’d written around the stems and tied it all together with pretty string. You had to try really hard not to crush them during the play, but you managed to gift them to her at the curtain call again, and this time she surely saw you. You waited again by the back door, and when she saw you she’d grinned and thanked you for the flowers and kissed your cheeks when she’d hugged you and you felt like your soul had left your body.

You decide to go a fourth time, loved every nuance and felt as though your only sense was visual unless you were hearing the ranges of her exquisite voice. And outside you are again, with your clouds of breath and cold hands, and your brooch glittering in the dim light of the evening. Again you are among other admirers but this time you think perhaps it’s just habit. You’ve done it each time before, why not this time again?

“Cate! Cate!” Someone exclaims, and a murmur comes over the group as the door opens and Cate steps out in a big coat and scarf. There is excited talking and you give her a sweet smile which is returned in kind and makes you feel utterly fluttery. 

“Bird brooch girl again,” Cate says, sidling up to you. “Would you like a selfie?” You manage to get your phone up and let her snap the picture, the both of you smiling at the camera— you hope you don’t look too wired because you certainly feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, utterly invigorated. She returns the phone to you and moves on, giving you one of her signature blink-winks. 

You watch for a moment, as she goes and interacts with other admirers, girls nearly in tears, signing papers and offering hugs. And then you turn away back toward the front of the theatre where you might catch a cab home. You linger, pulling up the few selfies Cate had managed to take while you posed together. There are four, each a bit different, spontaneous perhaps, but you love all of them. You might have them printed. You might have them framed. 

“I don’t suppose you’re still here on purpose?” 

You turn around abruptly, almost losing your balance. She’s there, a few feet away, alone. She’s talking to you. 

“I was about to call a cab,” you reply. You know she was teasing but you’ve suddenly begun to worry that she might think you’re one of those fanatics. 

“My driver is delayed— there was trouble with the car. Are you in a hurry to go home?” Is she really asking?

“No.” You would stay out all night. “No hurry.” 

“Come back inside then.” She ushers and turns toward the theatre. “I don’t think I’ve been able to pick anyone out of the crowd like I have with you— what has it been? Three, four times?” 

“Yes. Four times.” You let out a small laugh and follow her. “You’ve been wonderful every single performance.” 

“Hush.” 

You do, but you aren’t sure if she’s joking. You both end up inside the theatre, you following a few steps behind as she guides you quietly through the halls. She’s so graceful and elegant it’s like magic, and you’re both jealous and awed by how she moves. 

“The flowers you gave me are still in my dressing room.” It’s the first thing she’s said in a few minutes. “They’re beautiful, and smell amazing.” 

“I’m glad you liked them,” you say, and she opens a door and ushers you into her dressing room.

It’s spacious and decorated with little personal items— and there are the flowers, in a vase now, and they do smell quite nice.

You don’t see any sign of your script, but you weren’t really expecting to get any response from her— she’s so busy after all. You glance at the wastepaper basket though, but you aren’t sure if you’re meant to see anything in there besides used makeup remover wipes.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, and you nod. She takes off her jacket and scarf as you glance at the photos taped up on the wall. There are some of her kids, and some polaroids you can only guess are from the rehearsal period. She even has fairy lights strung up by the large vanity.  

She puts a kettle on, already full of water, and grabs two mugs. 

“So tell me, bird brooch,” she looks at you with mirth in her eyes, “how does one end up seeing the same show four times?” 

“Admiration for the talent?” you supply a touch of amusement in your voice, you tell her your name then, and she nods. 

“I know.” 

“How’s that?” 

“It was on your script.” 

You have to raise a brow at that statement. 

“So you got that too?” You try to sound casual about it.

“Bit sneaky of you, to wrap the flowers up with it,” she says, plucking two small tea bags from a covered ceramic dish. The kettle is getting a little louder now, a sort of hissing hum.

“I hedged my bets, worst you could have done is toss it I guess.” She hasn’t indicated if she liked it or not. Her grace is deceiving you think, like royalty whose displeasure is invisible on their features until they give an execution order. 

“And the best?” she asks, motioning at the coat rack behind you. “Take off your coat, sit. Please.” 

You feel your cheeks burn a little as your shrug out of your coat, you’d just been standing there stiffly while she’d already begun to relax. You hang your coat but you keep your little bag in your hands, something to channel some nervous energy into. 

You sit, and Cate pulls your script from under a few scattered makeup items. It is no longer as pristine as when you printed it, but that had changed the moment you wrapped it around the bouquet of flowers. Though it doesn’t quite look like the same creases now that it’s in her hands. 

“The best? Well— selling it? Getting it made into a film.” You shrug. 

“Do you think I have that kind of influence?” That voice of hers, it’s almost exasperating how you can’t tell when she’s joking or not, yet there is never even a hint of condescension in her tone. 

“Yes, actually. I think they're a lot of people who would do pretty much anything you asked of them.” You might be one of them if you’re honest with yourself. Thinking of all the inside-humour among your internet friends, saying things like ‘If Cate Blanchett punched me in the face, I’d thank her.’ 

“But,” you add, “I wasn’t just trying to get something out of you.” You wouldn’t want her to think you’re just using her. “I’m actually pretty honoured just to be in here with you.”  

She gives a breath of a laugh and reaches to shut off the particularly loud kettle. 

“I’m not offended. Admittedly I only happened to read it because Edith grabbed it out of my bag when I got home that night. It probably would have ended up in the bin had she not read the title out loud.” 

“Lucky me then,” you laugh, watching her pour the steaming water into each of the mugs. “She’s reading?” 

Cate nods. “Reads the names of brands off items at the supermarket now.” She takes out a couple of packets of sugar. “Do you take sugar— milk?” 

“Just one sugar, thanks.” She pours that in and stirs it with a wooden stir stick before passing it over to you. 

“Thank you,” you say softly, and watch her finish making hers. 

“You write very descriptively, I enjoyed what I read of your script.” She blows softly on the steaming tea before taking a sip.

“So you haven’t finished?” The tea is just a little too hot still so you hold it between your hands to warm them up. 

“I intend to,” she replies. “But I think it has a lot of potential so far.” 

You nod thoughtfully and hope that she can’t tell that your heart is absolutely racing at the prospect of Cate Blanchett actually liking your work, actually being of the opinion that your writing has potential. 

“It was smart that you left your contact information on the script,” she says, taking a fuller sip of her tea. 

“Leaving it off wouldn’t have done me any good.” Though you had had to make that choice. “Like I said, the worst thing you could have done was just throw it away. It still would have been something to be phoned or emailed to chew me out if you’d hated it.” You laugh at that, that doesn’t sound like something she’d do.

Cate laughs too, a sweet and rich kind of laugh, with an accompanying smile that shows her crows feet, and every line on her experienced, beautiful face. “True, true.” 

You sit in silence for a few moments, sipping your tea and hearing a clock ticking somewhere in the room. You can’t find the clock though, and you don’t want to look around like some snoop either. 

“I don’t want to make any promises,” she says, leaning forward and planing a hand on your knee. You look at her hand there and meet her gaze, deep and imploring. “But I think you’ll be getting a call about your script. Maybe not from me, but someone I can set you up with to get the ball rolling.” 

Your mouth opens in a little O shape, and you blink at her as you wrap your brain around those words. 

“Really? But you haven’t even finished it.” 

“I think it’s worth it already.” She pats your knee and leans back in her chair, taking a bigger gulp of her tea. 

“I… wow. Alright.” You nod. “Thank you.” 

“How long have you been writing?” she asks. 

“Years,” you admit, “but I only began taking it really seriously a year and a half ago.” 

“Do you have anything else finished?” 

You can hear your heart going  _ thub thub thub  _ in your ears. 

“Yes. Two manuscripts— for novels, but I’m still revising one. And one other script.” 

Her body language is genuinely interested. “All of the same genre?” 

You find yourself smiling shyly. “No, it varies. Not too broadly, but I dabble in a few genres. Keeps me on my toes.” 

“I’d encourage you to polish them up, or at least make sure they’re ready to be read by industry people.” 

You have to work really hard not to gape. “You’re being serious.” 

“Absolutely. You’re talented.” She sounds serious as if any notion to the contrary would be an offence (but to her or to you, you’re not sure).

You smile, a satisfactory smile, and nod. You trust her, even if you are shocked that she liked your work enough to share it with some industry professional. You finish your tea with a big mouthful.    
Cate’s phone chirps and she picks it up, glancing at the notification. 

“Update on those car troubles?” you ask, and are met with a mirthful grin. 

“I don’t have a driver, actually. I lied about that.” 

Your expression must be shocked because she laughs, loud and heartily and puts her phone down again. 

“It felt like a more convincing reason to invite you for a chat.” She shrugs. 

“I would have joined you no matter what excuse you gave,” you say, shaking your head amusedly. 

“Good to know.” She smiles again, a lovely genuine, expectant smile. “I should be getting back, I promised the boys I’d be back before they went to bed.” 

“Alright.” You both stand, and she holds out her hand. You shake it. It’s warm and soft and the shake is firm. She says your name again, like a promise, like a reminder. “I’m sure we’ll cross paths again,” she says. 

“I would love that.” 

You get your coat back on, and she hers, and quietly make your way from the theatre. Outside it’s still brisk, and your breath comes out in thick clouds. 

“Goodnight,” you say, giving a slight wave as she heads down the sidewalk. 

She turns at the last moment and waves back. 

“See you soon, bird brooch girl.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic. If you enjoyed it, I would certainly appreciate a comment!  
> To send prompts or to request a personalized fanfic you can find me @ LOUISEMILLER on tumblr.


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